BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION.
ADAPTED FROM THE LONDON EDITION

In the United States of America a “show” is the generic name comprising every description of entertainment, being equally applied to an equestrian performance, a dramatic company, an operatic concert, a political oration, or a lecture on the geology of the oil district of Pennsylvania. A few years ago, when I did not know America quite so well as I do now, I was asked by Mr. Barnum to meet him on a matter of business at his celebrated Museum on Broadway. Every one who has visited New York and called in at that strangely-jumbled exhibition, will remember a small room on the first landing, with “Mr. Barnum – Private” painted on the door. I don’t know whether any show-case in the Museum was as attractive to the crowds of country visitors as that little room proved to be. Though privacy was written on the post, publicity was ever peeping in at the door. Shrewd, astute, and rusé as Barnum is, none knew better than he that the greatest object of interest in the Museum was himself. Hence he arranged to have his private room immediately in front of the public staircase, with the door always a little open, to pique curiosity, unless really important business required absolute seclusion. In this room, or rather in this glass-case, for its three sides were of glass, like the cases containing the wax-figures and the stuffed animals, Barnum and I met. He conversed about different speculations he had on hand, and various ideas which he wished to carry out. Some of them were very characteristic of the man and his spirit of enterprise. One, was to organize an expedition to the mouth of Davis’s Straits at the proper season, select a very large iceberg, bring it down in the tow of two or three steamers to New York Bay, put a floating fence around it, exhibit the iceberg at twenty-five cents admission, and realize a large profit by making and vending sherry cobblers with ice from the real iceberg! Another idea suggested by the man of many shows was to get the American Minister at the Court of Constantinople to apply to the Sultan for a firman to permit Barnum or his agent to visit the mosque at Hebron, traditionally asserted to be built over the Cave of Machpelah, in which the remains of the patriarchs were buried. “If we could only get the remains of Abraham and bring them to New York!” exclaimed the deus ex machinâ of the Museum, rubbing his hands with delight at the ingenuity of the thought. Then, after a moment’s reflection, and knowing me to be well acquainted with England, he remarked, inquiringly, “What do you think of Spurgeon for a show? Could he be got over here?” To me unused as I then was to American can manners, the association of a clergyman with Bartlemy Fair and Barnum’s Museum seemed ludicrously incongruous. Subsequently my experience taught me to believe that some of the preachers of the United States look at their position from the same point of view as did Mr. Barnum in wishing to speculate in Spurgeon.

A “showman,” as well as an author, Josh Billings is now regarded in the cities of the Union. In England we would style him a facetious lecturer, but the lecturing business in America is carried out with all the arts, formulæ and appurtenances of showmanship. There are the large posters, the puff advertisements, the agent in advance, and the lithographs plain or colored, all brought into requisition. It is quite true that if Charles Dickens visited Manchester or Birmingham to read “Doctor Marigold” or “The Christmas Carol,” he also had his agent and his yellow window-bills with the black and red printing; but the window-bill is limited to a size and is printed in a style fitting to the superior class of entertainment; while, in America, the posters of the popular lecturer are as showy and as exciting as those of Van Amburgh with his wild beasts, or the Hanlon Brothers with their feats on the trapeze. Quaintness, however, is an essential requisite in the placard of the facetious lecturer. Artemus Ward used to announce in large letters on the walls that he would “Speak a Piece” at a certain place and on a certain date. Josh Billings announces in a still more mystic manner, strongly reminding the observer of Ruskin’s bizarre, grotesque, enigmatical titles. I have before me, as I write, a printed notice which reads thus: —

“ALLYN HALL, HARTFORD

JOSH BILLINGS,

On the 7th,

With his

HOBBY HORSE.”

The reader who is anxious to know what Josh Billings means by an advertisement so eccentric in its character can have his curiosity satisfied by turning to page 404 of this work. The chapter is headed “How to pick out a good Horse,” and the caption is assuredly none the more inappropriate or infelicitous than are the titular conundrums of the “Seven Lamps of Architecture,” “Unto this Last,” or “A Crown of Wild Olives.” John Ruskin and Josh Billings understand with equal clearness the value of a title which shall arrest attention by not being too easy of comprehension.

I first heard of Josh Billings several years ago when crossing the Isthmus of Panama by that remarkable railway which connects the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. When Nuñez de Balboa in the olden time had his first peep of the Pacific, and beheld the ocean which no European had before seen, from an eminence which is now a station of the railway, he little thought that in a few centuries hence the steam engine would haul thousands upon thousands of Christians up to the same summit, and allow them to enjoy the same sight at so many American dollars each. Terribly prosaic is this earth becoming! And, despite Schiller and Coleridge, it is scarcely Jupiter who “brings whate’er is good,” or Venus “who brings everything that’s fair.” A locomotive or a steamboat will bring or take you to both; and a railway it was which brought me to know of Josh Billings. The incident was simply this:

Midway on the Panama railway there is a station at which travellers alight while the engineer looks after his supply of wood and water. A beautifully picturesque station it is, looking from it along the road which you have come, or adown that portion of the railway track which you have to go – a luxuriance of tropical vegetation meets the eye, overpowering the mind with the wild profusion of its beauty. Nature seems to revel in a wealth of verdure. Palms, bananas, and trees innumerable of every graceful form tower upwards to the unclouded sky, or arch over the flower-garnished earth. The trunk of each is invisible; for creeping plants of the most delicate growth entwine around the wood, hang in loops from the boughs, connect tree to tree with a lace-work of exquisite elegance and sun-dyed brilliancy, and sway in wreaths of natural arabesque to and fro in the fragrant, moist, and enervating air. The station lies back from the road, and, if I remember rightly, is thatched with palm leaves. As I alighted at it, groups of native New-Grenadians clustered around me, the younger ones being almost in a state of nudity. Some offered me oranges, some bananas, some milk in a green-glass bottle, and one of them wished me to buy a monkey. Pushing through them, I made my way for the station, the sultry atmosphere having rendered me languid and a gentle stimulus being desirable. I expected to find the refreshment department in the care of a native, or, at any rate, of a Spaniard; but the ubiquitous Yankee was master of the premises, and a forlorn ague-stricken, quinine-and-calomel-looking master he seemed to be. His whiskey was something not to be forgotten; nor were his dogs, half a dozen of which were running about the place, the greatest burlesques of the race canine I had hitherto seen. They were all lean, hungry, and wolfish-eyed. Their tails drooped mournfully, as if the seething heat had melted the sinews and softened the bones; they whined peevishly, but bark there was none – their owner required it all to keep the ague away. I had drunk my whiskey, become Christian in my feelings, and was silently pitying the poor animals, when the proprietor of the miserable dog-flesh, stationing himself beside me, and placing his hands on his hips, sententiously observed, —

“Them critturs are the pride of the Isthmus. They’re a pair of the most elegant puppies in this State. Nary one of ’em would flunk out before any dog.”

“They look very cowardly about the tail,” I remarked.

“That’s the way of dogs’ tails on the Isthmus,” was his response. “Do you know what Josh Billings says about dogs’ tails?”

I frankly confessed that I did not; adding, that I was profoundly ignorant of Josh Billings, and pleasantly intimating that I supposed him to be one of the guards on the line.

“I guess you haven’t read the papers lately,” continued my new acquaintance, as though pitying my ignorance. “Josh Billings knows that there are some dogs’ tails which can’t be got to curl no ways, and some which will, and you can’t stop ’em. He says, that if you bathe a curly-tailed dog’s tail in oil and bind it in splints, you cannot get the crook out of it; and Josh, who says a sight of good things, says that a man’s way of thinking is the crook in the dog’s tail, and can’t be got out, and that every one should be allowed to wag his own peculiarity in peace.”

That my Yankee acquaintance was partial to Josh Billings, and that anything which related to dogs was congenial with his tastes, I furthermore ascertained by noticing two scraps of paper posted on the rough wall of his cabin. I copied both. One was in prose and the other in rhyme. Here is the prose one: —

Dogs.

“Dogs are not vagabones bi choise and luv tew belong tu sumbody. This fac endears them tew us, and i have alwas rated the dog az about the seventh cusin tew the human specious. Tha kant talk but tha can lik yure hand; this shows that their hearts iz in the plase where other folks’ tungs is. – Josh Billings.”

Thus it was that I first heard of Josh Billings. In the course of my voyage from Aspinwall to New York, while seated on the deck of the steamer, listening to the drolleries of a group of very convivial passengers, and gliding along the coast of Cuba in the brightness, sheen, and splendor of a tropical night, I heard many of his best things recited, and his name frequently quoted as that of one who had already taken his place in American literature. Oliver Wendell Holmes I had known for years, Artemus Ward was a household name in California, James Russell Lowell had become a familiar acquaintance through the “Biglow Papers;” but who was Josh Billings? I asked my compagnons de voyage, but all they knew of him was that he was a very clever fellow who had written some very clever things. Whether he lived in New York State, Pennsylvania, Vermont, or Missouri, no one could tell me, nor could I get any satisfactory information as to the journal in which his articles had first appeared, what his antecedents were, or whether the name attached to his writings was that of his parentage and christening, or merely a whimsical nomme de plume.

Long after my arrival in New York the mystery remained unsolved. I applied to literary friends for its solution, but all they seemed to know was that various smart things had run the round of the papers with the signature of “Josh Billings” to them, but in what paper they had originated or by whom they were written none could give me information. My friend George Arnold, a well-known wit of the New York Leader, knew of my anxiety. Meeting me one day at Crook and Duff’s Restaurant, the mid-day rallying point of most of the genial spirits of New York, he drew me aside and gravely asked —

“Have you found out yet who Josh Billings is?”

“I have not,” I answered. “Do you know?”

“Yes; but keep it dark. Only five of his friends have been let into the secret. It would not do to let the world know. His position would be damaged.”

“Who is it?” I demanded eagerly. “Is it Hosea Biglow under a new name?”

“No; somebody better known.”

“Horace Greeley?” I suggested, interrogatively.

“No. A still greater man. Can’t you guess?”

“Really, I cannot. Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me.”

“The author is – ” and my friend paused – “the author of Josh Billings is none other than – President Lincoln!”

My informant made the communication so gravely, that for the moment I believed it; especially as some few days previous, being down in Washington, I had occasion to know that Barney Williams, the actor, was summoned to the White House on a Sunday afternoon, that he spent some hours with the President, and that on his return in the evening to Willard’s Hotel he assured me that the President had beaten him in telling funny stories, and had said the drollest things he had heard for many a day. That my information was nothing more than a hoax the reader will readily suppose; but I felt bound to “pass it on” to my acquaintances, with a like injunction to secresy, until at length I had the amusement of hearing that it had reached the ears of Mr. Lincoln, who laughed heartily at the joke, and pleasantly observed that his shoulders were hardly broad enough to bear the burdens of the State, without having to carry the sins of all its wits and jesters.

Time passed on and business called me to take a trip one day up the Hudson River to the pleasant little town of Poughkeepsie. What a quiet, charming little town it is, those who have visited it can well remember. I selected the steamer Armenian for my trip up the river. The Rhine of America never was seen to more advantage than it was on that bright summer’s day, and Poughkeepsie never looked fairer than as I saw it from the middle of the stream. I landed at a town on the left bank, crossed the river, went down to Poughkeepsie by rail, and arrived there late in the evening, I knew of only two staple products of the place, and they were – whiskey and spiritualism. The whiskey I tasted, and the spiritualism I went in search of in the person of Andrew Jackson Davis, the Swedenborg of the United States, whose books on the unseen world have been introduced to the British public by Mr. Howitt. A kindly Poughkeepsian volunteered to conduct me to where the great mysticist had lived; but I found, to my disappointment, that he was then absent from the town. To console me for my ill-luck, in not being able to see so great a celebrity, my guide soothingly observed that there was another great writer resident in and belonging to Poughkeepsie.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Why, Josh Billings!” was the reply.

Eureka! I had found him. I had unearthed my game at last and discovered my eremite in his mystic seclusion. I lost no time in inquiring who Josh Billings was and where he lived.

“His name is Shaw – Henry W. Shaw. He’s an auctioneer, and I’ll show you the way to his house,” volunteered my friendly guide.

We went to the house; but like Mr. Davis, Mr. Shaw was not at home. All that I could then learn about him was that he belonged to Poughkeepsie, that he had been the